


so great a difficulty

by melmillo



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Community: springkink, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melmillo/pseuds/melmillo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for springkink. Original prompt: Count Cain/Godchild, Cain/Riff: longing- "I'm praying for a miracle, but I won't hold my breath".</p>
            </blockquote>





	so great a difficulty

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted under my old LJ username, now posted here under my sock-name.

Cain knew there must have been some instant when it began, some particular day or hour when he turned to look at Riff and saw not only the familiar presence at his side, but the same man in a different light. Saw him and noticed the broadness of his shoulders, and the quickness of his hands, and the fineness of his profile.

Saw him and thought, _oh._

He might have been able to pinpoint that instant, had he bothered to waste the effort on such a pointless exercise. If the first moment of _want_ must be set, then he set it at that first night in the garden, the dirt of that bird's little grave sticking under his nails, Riff appearing from nowhere aglow in the lamplight. It had been a child’s want then, for company and comfort, but no less keen and no less consuming. Time and the warmth of Riff’s presence had soothed but not cured it, and while he could send Riff to the other side of the house or the country with outward calm, down in the marrow of his bones lurked a constant impulse to clutch at Riff’s sleeve and make him remain. When Riff was distant, he needed that that distance gone; when he was near, Cain needed him nearer still.

That want would never fade, but he had learned to survive under its pressure. Should it matter if now he sometimes wished for Riff to be near for reasons that were not so childish? Should it be so different if another sort of desire had twined itself in amongst those more innocent sorts of love and need, and wound itself too tightly to be plucked out and cast away? He had yearned toward Riff like iron toward lodestone for years; this was merely another sort of yearning he would have to bear. By now, he should be inured to it.

Therefore, when Riff leaned a little closer to set down the tray for afternoon tea, Cain should not be hyper-aware of Riff’s scent, the scent of silver polish and linen and clean things. When Riff 's coat sleeve and shirt-cuff pulled upwards a little, Cain should not be dizzied by the heat that rushed over him like a spike of fever at the sight of Riff 's skin. He should not need to bite his lip against thoughts of pressing his mouth to that jagged white scar on Riff's wrist, and Riff pushing him back against the table, and the two of them making the china rattle.

'Should not', Cain was learning, did not carry much weight against this sort of want.

* * *

He knew the steps to take, of course. Familiar as he and Riff were with each other, there were hints that could not be mistaken for anything other than an enticement. At times it felt as if some force nudged him forward, and never having been given to restraint, he found himself advancing: lined the words up on his tongue; let his smiles curve in a way just slightly improper; held Riff's eyes with his own for much longer than was necessary; leaned for an instant into the touch of Riff 's hands. And at the very moment before he spoke, or before his unspoken action would become unambiguous--

_See how selfish you are, that you seek to spoil the one bright thing you’ve been given?_

\--he would always press his lips together, and turn his gaze elsewhere, or shift away.

Decency and morality were easy enough for him to shrug off in most instances, but this want carried a mass of sharp and subtle consequences with it, and he had led Riff halfway to hell and ruin already. If Cain were more callous, to drag Riff one further step down that path would not seem so great, but heartlessness where Riff was concerned was impossible. He had the rest of the world to be heartless with, but not Riff. And for all its strength, this fever was not a killing one. He could bear this sort of wanting without running mad. He could be satisfied to never achieve it--well, no, not _satisfied_. But he could survive a life with Riff forever at his side and no closer, if not for the sense that what he wanted could be achieved if only the situation were right.

It would be easier, certainly, if whatever higher power had created Riff had made him--not less perfect, but only a bit less _proper_. Riff was capable of remarkable initiative, but this boundary he would never overstep on his own. One slip, one glimmer of an agreeing response from Riff and Cain thought he might have the bravery to speak at last--but where a lesser man would have betrayed himself by his reactions, Riff apparently could bear Cain’s catlike smiles with equanimity, and displayed neither discomfort nor uncommon interest if Cain pulled him close enough to kiss under the pretext of straightening Riff’s perfectly straight collar.

Yet he had sensed, he thought, a certain sort of regard from Riff. Cain had grown practiced enough to know when a desirous stare fell on him, like a fingertip caressing the nape of his neck. It had become a something of an game for himself at parties, trying to move quickly enough to catch the observer’s eye, to see which lady would blush and giggle and hide behind her fan or, occasionally, which gentleman would pale and turn away. He would swear that he had felt that same weighted look from Riff, only muted a hundredfold, faint enough that in his darker moods he was tempted to dismiss it as another fevered imagining--for in this game he always lost, and no matter how quickly he turned he could never catch anything in Riff’s eyes other than attentiveness and loyalty.

And if he did one day see in Riff’s eyes something more heated than devotion--then what? The first step still must still be Cain's, and though he had leashed Riff to his side with blood and death and _stay_ and _mine_ , he could not--not yet--find it in him to add the burden of _come here_ and all that it entailed.

* * *

He considered the problem late one evening, curled in bed, watching through half-lidded eyes as Riff turned down the lamps for the night.

What to do, with the two of them pinioned so? A good man would resolve to ignore it or pray that this craving would be taken away, while a bad man, he supposed, would at least pray to be better man. None of those would do for him. No, what was needed (and the light was casting an odd shadow on Riff's neck ; Cain could set his teeth there, and see what sort of sounds Riff would make--)

What was _needed_ was a push from another source, a moment when some greater force aligned all the circumstances and gave Riff enough boldness to presume, or Cain enough desperation to beckon.

Say, some late evening when Cain has been reckless--not the recklessness of grave-robbing and cyanide and murderers with blood-stained knives, but the dull sort that merely involved too little sleep and too much wine. Drinking himself into sheer insensibility had not and never would be one of his indulgences, but on this evening some stray thought would enter his head and cause him to take one more glass, and then another, just enough to coax his body and his mind into languidness. And when he returned home that evening, and Riff knelt at his feet to remove his shoes and socks, Cain would not be thinking of consequences; he would only be thinking that he could curl his bare foot under Riff 's chin, and tilt his head up, and--

Or in the dead of night one of those aforementioned murderers comes just a shade too close to one of them with that aforementioned knife before being subdued. Even for this Cain would not permit injury to Riff, but for himself, yes--only something glancing, but enough to set adrenaline rushing through both of them. In the moments afterward, when the world was still in that strange sharp focus that came after danger, Riff would hurry to his side, and when he had ascertained that Cain was not gravely hurt, he might put his hands on Cain's shoulders, and lean close, and--

Or perhaps Cain only needed to wait for a moment like this one, with himself abed and nearly on the edge of sleep. The evening chill would be settling on the house, but he would be warm and drowsy enough for more sensible thoughts to have slipped away. Riff would be turning down the last lamp so that the room was lit only by the glow of the fire, and when he was finished he would cross the room, and come close to the bed, and say, softly--

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

\--and Cain could look up, and meet those eyes he knew so well, and say--

He drew a breath. "No." He closed his eyes and let his head drop to the pillow. "I think that'll be all. Good night, Riff."

"Good night, sir", Riff said, as he always did, and went. The door shut with a click, and Cain was left with only the silence.

He turned his head into the pillow, and felt a sharp laugh tangle in his chest. It was the height of arrogance, of course, to think that the world would re-order itself for someone such as him, and for a wish such as this. Likely everything would continue on this way forever, himself and Riff and desire and the right moment spinning past each other, never quite managing to all meet at once.

Indeed, he could have resigned himself entirely to despair, were it not for the simple fact of Riff's existence by his side.

Having such tangible evidence that heaven's occasional mercy came even to creatures like himself, Cain could not quite extinguish the hope that he might some day be granted another allowance of it.


End file.
